


Only Paper & Ink

by yespolkadot_kitty



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Geraskier Week 2020, Jaskier looks after Geralt, M/M, it's another sickfic, two cute boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:41:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22860415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yespolkadot_kitty/pseuds/yespolkadot_kitty
Summary: Geralt's wounded and needs to be looked after.Day 4 of Geraskier week with the prompt "Hurt/Comfort."
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 5
Kudos: 204





	Only Paper & Ink

Jaskier shifted on the hard stool in the room they held over the tavern. Rain lashed the windows, rattling them, as Geralt lay in the large bed, somehow looking small. An intense, day-long fight with a wendigo had injured him in the side, a gash that pained him still three days later. The bard had never known anything like it.

Yennefer had been in and out of the room, always brewing some potion or another, worry creased into her beautiful face. “He will survive,” her mouth said, but her eyes told of another story.

Jaskier had passed the time by composing ballad after ballad, unable to compose anything even vaguely happy or upbeat. He’d bathed only on Yen’s insistence that he smelled like a whorehouse staffed by pigs.

He’d not leave his friend. Even if the big, sullen Witcher only  _ tolerated _ him, or pretended to, he knew their bond was strong, couldn’t be broken. Jaskier wouldn’t  _ let _ it be broken.

Geralt started to shiver under the pile of furs. The bard hopped up, grabbing a waterskin from the trunk at the foot of the bed. He eased the Witcher into a sitting position against the straw-stuffed pillows; no easy feat when Geralt weighed perhaps three times what Jaskier did. “Drink, c’mon Geralt, you big bastard,” he muttered. Finally the Witcher’s lips parted on a breath and Jaskier fed him some water. Geralt murmured some nonsense and then fell back into a deep doze, still shivering.

“What the  _ fuck _ do I do now?” Jaskier asked no one in particular. He poked restlessly at the fire in the small hearth. No firewood left. He hesitated, glanced at the shaking hulk of a man in the bed, then tore into his saddlebag. Finding the worn book he used to pen all his lyrics in, he ripped pages off, threw them into the small fire. The flames kindled at once and Jaskier kept feeding them, his own brow beading with sweat. He’d mourn the loss of his scribblings later. “It’s only paper and ink, bard,” he muttered, doing an impression of Geralt’s deep, husky baritone to try and amuse himself. It didn’t work.

The flames greedily ate up his words and Jaskier watched it dispassionately. In a contest of his words versus Geralt’s life, the Witcher would ever win.

Geralt shivered still. Jaskier examined the window seals. Winter drafts whistled in and he sighed. There were no other free rooms at this remote inn, so nowhere else to go, even  _ if _ between him and Yen he could have moved Geralt.

Unsure of what to do, he watched the Witcher’s chest rise and fall erratically. He had only one idea left: body heat. Jaskier himself was always warm, rarely cold. With another sigh, he shucked off his clothes. No use pretending that he hadn’t imagined this many times, however, in his feverish daydreams, Geralt was a willing participant and not a shivering invalid.

He methodically drew the covers back and stripped Geralt’s heavy tunic and shirt off. He was sweating heavily by the time he was done. Moving the Witcher’s muscled form took supreme effort. Finally he slipped under the blankets and spread himself, naked save for smallclothes, over the Witcher’s body, his head finding a natural resting place in the hollow of Geralt’s shoulder. He let out a breath, waited a few long moments.

“If you die, I’ll kill you myself,” he threatened Geralt, wishing his friend would bite back some pithy retort.

After what seemed an interminable wait, the Witcher’s shivering slowed, then stopped. His breathing evened out, and he seemed to be sleeping normally - if anything a Witcher did could ever be termed “normal.”

The rain continued to hammer, but it was toasty warm under the blankets. The Witcher’s heartbeat lulled Jaskier in an on and off doze. When he woke, he got the sense that Geralt was… awake.

“Bard?” the big Witcher asked sleepily, his voice hoarse and husky from three days’ break.

“Geralt? Geralt!” Jaskier scrambled into a sitting position, his face splitting into a big grin. “You’re awake! And alive! I mean, of course, you’ve got to be alive to be awake. I mean - well…. Yay!”

Geralt rubbed a hand over his eyes, furrowing his brow. “Jaskier, where the  _ fuck  _ are your clothes?”


End file.
